


Roses #IneffableValentines2020 prompt 2

by GayDemonicDisaster (scrapheapchallenge)



Series: Ineffable Valentines 2020 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: #ineffableValentines2020, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Valentines, ineffable valentines, ineffablevalentines, ineffablevalentines2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster
Summary: There’s a family of gardeners who grow and sell plants and flowers, specialising in roses. For generations, a curious redheaded gentleman (and presumably his descendants) have been visiting and buying rose bushes from them, and having them collect and cultivate certain types of rose, and even to custom grow a special variety for him. He whisks the roses away somewhere and no one ever knows where.Then one day, Aziraphale finds out…
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Valentines 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618783
Comments: 45
Kudos: 211
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	Roses #IneffableValentines2020 prompt 2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miele_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/gifts).



Hayes, West London, 1892

William recognised the carriage immediately as it pulled up to the gate, and despatched his son David with a nod of the head to run and open the gate for the regular customer. The carriage was black with fine red coach striping along the side. It was pulled by a pair of smart black hackneys who appeared to be a bit of a handful, as if constantly on edge about something. Not an ideal, settled driving pair, to be so skittish, but their owner didn’t appear perturbed at their behaviour, even if the coachman did, he appeared used to it.

His young son David opened the gate and stood on the bottom rail, swinging on it precisely as he was always yelled at not to do, as the carriage passed through. The coachman reined in the horses and a footman stepped down from the footplate to head up the pair, clipping on a nosebag to each to settle them, as the occupant swung the door wide and stepped out. Once he had alighted from the carriage, the horses seemed to settle down and become less nervous. He gave them a wide berth nonetheless as he approached William.

“Morning, Mr. Crowley” William nodded deferentially at his regular visitor. “Mr Haltwhistle,” the gentleman nodded back in acknowledgement. He gazed around at the blooming market garden all around him. William Haltwhistle was a successful professional gardener, cultivating a plethora of rare and expensive blooms to sell to the gardens of the gentry. He had over the years built up a vast empire on his farm handed down from his own father, buying up neighbouring farms to lay out extensive glasshouses filled with the latest imported rare plants brought back on ships from around the globe. He had palm trees in the palm house, as well as exotic fruits including pineapples and even bananas.

He had fields full of the finest tulips from Holland, some of the bulbs had cost him hundreds of guineas and were fiercely guarded from theft. But his speciality was roses. Mr Crowley tended to choose verdant green exotic plants over flowers, and had particular tastes, but in recent years, he had been collecting roses.

“Anything new for me, William?” he enquired, stalking around the displays of cut flowers being prepared for the cart into Covent Garden in London. “Yes indeed, my good sir, knowing your preferences, I have been enquiring about for items that I thought might catch your interest. These ones I exchanged a very fine date palm for with the head gardener up at Castle Howard…” he indicated some potted roses in a delicate shade of pink. “And I think you will appreciate the name, sir,” he winked, conspiratorially. He told Mr Crowley, who gave the subtlest hint of a smile. “Very good, I’ll take two, my man will load them up for you. What else do you have today?” William led him off around the gardens.

* * *

Hayes, 1948.

David eased upwards slowly, his back aching. He was getting too old for this nonsense. He heard his dog, Jessie, barking at the gate and looked to see who it might be. His hearing was at least better than his eyesight nowadays and he recognised the familiar rumble of the Bentley and the crunch of wheels on gravel. He made his way over toward the gate to open it, before a familiar voice stopped him. “No need, Mr Haltwhistle, I’ve got it, you stay there.” The gate creaked open and the young man leapt athletically back into the car again, eased it through the gateway and parked up in front of the farmhouse. He stilled the engine, got out, shut the gate and turned to greet David properly. “Afternoon Mr Haltwhistle, how does life find you nowadays?” Jessie growled and grumbled, hackles raised, and slunk around giving the visitor a wide, cautious, berth. David tutted at her. “ _Sit_ , you daft dog.” He hissed, embarrassed. She wasn’t like this with anyone else.

David smiled back at the young man. “Not so bad, Mr Crowley. You do look ever so much like your father, you know. I remember when I was a lad he’d come here with that smart carriage of his, and dad would yell at me for swinging on the gate when I opened it.” He chuckled at the memory. “He said you grandfather used to come here too, when he first started this business.” Crowley nodded. “Indeed, well you do grow the best. What do you have for me today?”

David called the dog to heel and beckoned at the smartly dressed young gentleman. “Well it’s mostly in the big greenhouse today, what with the cold snap, come and see…” Shortly afterwards, Crowley sauntered back to the Bentley with a potted rose under each arm and stowed them safely on the back seat, before zooming off with a wave. Jessie finally relaxed and stopped growling once he’d left. David found it odd. The young man had never commented on the dog’s behaviour, or seemed offended by it thankfully.

* * *

Hayes, 11 years ago.

Amanda Berkinshaw looked up from the kitchen table at the familiar sound of a car horn outside, and pressed the remote control for the electric opener on the gate. She picked up the cup of coffee and walked outside while the Bentley parked up in the yard. “Good to see you again, Anthony” she smiled as he stepped out of the car. She had inherited the farm from her great uncle many years ago, and although they’d had to sell off quite a bit of the land to developers to keep their heads above water, she retained the family tradition of cultivating roses, which she exhibited each year at the Chelsea Flower show, as her family had for years, often winning top prizes there.

“I’ve something extra special for you, today Anthony. Bob and I have been working on this new variety for a while now, we haven’t shown them anywhere, but I was saving the first cultivar for you, I knew you’d like it…” She led him through a small gate to the side of the house and swung her arm around indicating a line of perfect blooms. Crowley smiled. “Perfect.” 

They were interrupted by the jangling of Crowley’s phone, he gave an apologetic look, glanced at the screen, whispered “work” at her and ambled off a short distance to take the call. Amanda’s cat looked up from where it was dozing in the flowerbed in evening sun and hissed at him. He hissed back and it ran off. Amanda didn’t notice.

“Yeah? Uh. OK. Um, bit busy at the moment Hastur. No, yeah, I mean sure I can get there in a little bit… Nah, not too far away, just over in Hayes, can head on up the A40, right up past Denham and I’ll be there in no time. Yeah. Yup. Just got to finish something up here first. Yeah. Ciao…” He hung up, looking disgruntled. He ambled back to Amanda, and nodded at the roses. “Sorry, something’s come up at work, got to head off, but I’ll pop back and pick them up another day, catch you later ok?”

* * *

Chelsea Flower Show, last year.

“Maisie, how are you doing?” Maisie Berkinshaw spun around at the familiar voice, partway through arranging some blooms on the display stand, anxious over the upcoming judging. “Oh, Mr Crowley, mum said you’d be likely to pop by, she told me to bring along a couple of things for you. Everything is going ok I hope, but a couple of these wilted on the way over, I’m having to rearrange the display a bit.” Crowley smiled at her. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. What did you bring for me then?” Maisie grinned “Gimme a minute, and I’ll show you, they’re in the van outside. Is your dad doing ok? Mum does miss him you know.” Crowley nodded, distractedly. “Oh he’s fine, yeah. Never better.” He eyed up a sagging rose at the end of the display and discreetly snapped his fingers while Maisie wasn’t looking. The rose perked up immediately.

* * *

Soho, present day.

Crowley spent most days hanging out in the bookshop with Aziraphale, and they settled into a routine of regularly meeting together and hanging out, without the fear of being under scrutiny any more. But one thing that Aziraphale puzzled over was Crowley’s secretiveness over one part of his routine in particular. Every Thursday afternoon he’d disappear off somewhere, and never told Aziraphale where he was going. “It’s just something personal, Angel, its fine, I’ll be back later.” It couldn’t be work, neither of them had a job any more since they’d cut ties with above and below, but there was something the demon was up to that the angel wasn’t part of, and the secret nagged at him, he was curious.

Eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer, and decided to follow him. It was harder than it sounded. The problem was that Aziraphale didn’t drive, and even if he did, he couldn’t have kept up with Crowley’s frenetic pace through the streets of London. Neither, for that matter, could any taxi or other form of transport. He’d need another way to track him. He couldn’t just set a private detective on the case, as yet again, the fact that Crowley’s Bentley could achieve such ridiculous speeds through London would surely break the mind of any human who attempted to concentrate on it and understand it. Most humans simply didn’t notice it at all, as it wasn’t possible for it to happen, so they couldn’t be seeing it. If he were to pay a human to _try_ to see it who knew what kind of difficulties might arise.

Instead he selected something personal of his own. He manifested his wings and plucked a feather that was looking a little ragged anyway, with only a slight flinch as he tugged it loose. A minor miracle and he’d be able to feel it wherever he was. Next time he was in the Bentley, he slid it down the back of the seat, between the cushion and the seat back. Now he’d be able to detect wherever the Bentley might go. He felt slightly guilty, but he simply couldn’t bear the curiosity any longer.

A week later he had his answer. So he arranged for the week after that to get there first.

The taxi dropped him off around the corner and he walked down the street to the location. It wasn’t far from Highgate Cemetery, and he found a walled off plot of land to the side with high metal spikes atop it and signs stating “private property” and “Keep out” attached to the old brick walls. A tall, solid black metal gate was securely chained and padlocked. He heard a familiar engine in the distance and hurriedly made his way back around the corner to hide out of sight until Crowley had parked up.

He peeked around the wall and watched Crowley exit the vehicle and approach the gates, key in hand, undo the padlock and slide the chain off the gate before entering. Once he was in, Aziraphale waited a few moments, then followed.

The unchained gate swung open on well-oiled hinges without a sound. Aziraphale gasped quietly as he stepped through into a tiny oasis of peace amidst the bustle of London.

The walls surrounded about half an acre of pristine garden. The sounds of the traffic outside were muffled by tall bushes around the perimeter up against the walls, but the eye was drawn inexorably to the centre where an ancient apple tree was growing, heavy with fruit. A carved wooden bench sat underneath its sprawling branches.

But the rest of the garden, apart from the lawn and the fruiting bushes, which were mostly blackberries and raspberries, the thorns acting as another layer of deterrent to anyone attempting entry over the walls, was given over to roses. Hundreds of roses, in a multitude of varieties.

There was a large shed at the other end of the garden, the door ajar, padlock loose, he guessed Crowley must have gone in there. It was a veritable Eden all around him, a slice of tranquility in the centre of London. Aziraphale stood on the path, mouth wide, taking it all in.

He stepped forward and saw that each rose bush had a carved wooden plaque staked into the ground in front of it, which detailed both its Latin and common name. He inspected the closest one. “Guardian angel” stated the plaque. He smiled, and looked at the next. “Angel eyes”, he walked on and inspected another “Lichfield Angel”, then “Earth Angel”, and “Angel Face.” *

“Aziraphale?” the startled voice made him jump, guilt written across his face. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Crowley didn’t look angry, but he was clearly shocked. Aziraphale gaped, lost for words for a moment.

“I, er, I…” his face fell, and he bit his lip nervously. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I was curious.” Crowley, trowel in hand, blinked at him slowly. He seemed equally at a loss. He swallowed and looked around, as if seeking the right words. 

“Uh…” Aziraphale met his gaze. “I wasn’t ready to show you yet.” 

“Show me what?” 

Crowley swung his arm wide. “All of this. I, uh, kind of…” he gulped and looked at his apple tree, then back at his angel again. “…I kind of made it for you.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “For me?” 

Crowley nodded. “I’ve been collecting them for a while” he said, indicating the roses. “They’re all for you. Some of them specially, er…” He glanced toward the centre of the garden. Oh well, it wasn’t a secret any more, he might as well show him. “This one was actually grown especially for you.” He pointed to a creamy white bloom, with a tiny hint of blue in a corona near the centre, which had pride of place next to the apple tree. The angel drew closer and inspected the plaque. “Aziraphale’s beauty” read the nameplate.

He looked up at Crowley, unable to find any words to express his train of thought. He could only breathe out “Crowley…”

He’d never seen a demon blush before.

First time for everything, he supposed.

He wrapped Crowley in a tight embrace. “Oh my dear boy.” Crowley went stiff, his heart a staccato rhythm of pure panic. His angel was _touching_ him. “Have you been shouting all these roses into obedience for me?” 

Crowley laughed and found his voice. “Uh, no, not these ones. I couldn’t…” he paused, and finally allowed his own hands to return the angel’s embrace. How could he tell him? The roses were like stand-ins for his angel, he could never yell at _these_ . I mean, the blackberries, _yes_ , those thorny bastards would get way too far out of hand if he let them run riot without some discipline, but the roses, never.

Aziraphale nodded toward a corner of the garden tucked away by the shed where a variety of familiar verdant green exotic plants were huddled together. “What about those?”

Crowley cringed. “Uh, those are the Fallen plants.” Aziraphale gave him a knowing look, a smile on his lips. He knew the demon couldn’t actually be putting them down the garbage disposal. Crowley looked embarrassed..

“I kind of planned to bring you here one day, I just didn’t know when.” 

Aziraphale leaned back and looked him in the eyes. “Bring me here?” Crowley nodded, still tense and uncertain. “What occasion were you waiting for, Crowley?” 

The demon shrugged. “Don’t know” he mumbled. “Something special.” 

Aziraphale smiled at him fondly. “Well should we make today something special?” They were in each other’s arms already. He finally knew, they both finally knew.

Aziraphale lifted a hand to Crowley’s face, Crowley drew in a sharp breath, nervous, but didn’t pull away. Aziraphale leaned forward, raised his eyebrows slightly in question. Crowley’s lips parted slightly more, and despite himself he felt his body lean forward slightly.

Their lips met.

Crowley didn’t know how long it lasted. Aziraphale’s lips were warm and sweet, so soft on his own, tongue pushing gently at his, fumbling but keen. He returned the kiss like a nervous schoolboy on his first date. His hands came up at long last to feel the softness of the angel’s hair and he moaned gently into the kiss with pleasure. His entire body seemed to fill with light as the love from the angel poured into him like thick, sweet golden honey, filling him to overflowing.

Whoever said demons can’t feel love was a fucking liar, he thought. But demons might be able to drown in it perhaps. He certainly felt like he was. It was all too much, far too much. He broke away for a moment to draw breath. “Angel…” he gasped.

Aziraphale’s eyes were hazy with desire. “Oh Crowley, my love.” He rested his head on the demon’s chest, hearing his heart thudding rapidly under the quivering ribcage. “How long have you been building this little Eden for us?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t remember, over a hundred years certainly, a few generations for sure, I forget.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him. “Are _all_ the roses named for angels?” Crowley nodded. “All of them.” He gazed into those deep blue eyes, then removed his shades to see them better, and smiled. “But none of them are as beautiful as you.” He grinned to see Aziraphale blush this time, and kissed him again.

They sank down to the soft grass under the apple tree, still wrapped in each other’s arms, in their own private Eden.

*Yes these are all genuine names of real roses.


End file.
